I prepare for the night ahead.
The darkness here in the desert can be quite cold--
I cocoon myself in future warmth,
layer after layer of protective covering
anticipating the deepest, the most penetrating bone-cold winds
sweeping across the vast spaces of my soul.
The night will be long,
I've served this shift before
and the moments, the minutes, the hours
pass as winter sap from the tree--
I look ever so often to the eastern horizon
Waiting for the faintest sparkle of the tourmaline sky,
I pace from one end of my post to the other,
Ever on the lookout for trouble,
for any sign of the enemy.
At times my heart beats like the flap of the eagles wings
Once it's spotted prey--
The night brings not so familiar sounds--
Sounds I don't want to be familiar--
The core of my being raps hard
and I look to The eastern realm again.
And then the quiet,
The orchestral din of reverberated nothingness,
The clashing cymbal of thought upon anxious thought--
One more quick look--
Can it be the fringe of amber sun spilling
Over the horizon onto saffron sands?
It has come--Hope rises once more.
It has come--Hope rises once more.
I wait for the LORD, my soul waits, and in his word I put my hope. My soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen wait for the morning, more than watchmen wait for the morning. Psalm 130:5-6 |
This has always been one of my favorite scriptures. I think it so interesting how the last line is repeated. In literature repetition is used for a purpose--to make a statement, to get a point across--The writer is voicing his soul's quest in terms the people of his day can understand.
If you were this sentry how soon do you think you would want the morning to come?
How hard would you look towards the eastern horizon?
That is how I want my soul to wait for the Lord.
© ALL ART, PHOTOGRAPHS AND TEXT PROPERTY OF ELIZABETH DIANNE UNLESS OTHERWISE NOTED, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, 2008-2023
